What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
Holy shitballs, is it September already? The months are flying by in frenetic spurts, like liquid shite against the porcelain bowl of the universe. We are all barreling toward the grave at a horrifying pace, with the unstoppable weight of a symbolic train, the freight of which is the accumulation of our past regrets, propelling the momentum with no hope of escape or reprieve. My only relief comes in the form of waking each morning in The Land of Smiles, miles and miles from the collapsing West, and the soft breathing of whatever naked 20-year-old happens to be there for some casual copulation to calm the conscious—and the subconscious.
The dog days of summer are a monotonous milieu of muggy mundanity in Bangkok. Each one blurs into weeks and months like a Salvador Dali painting of melting clocks chronicling a collection of concubine cooters that come and go in a repeating pattern. If my life was a movie, June to September would be in the form of a montage, likely set to Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face.“
For the 11 years I worked a day job in BKK, I was on a very strict monger-sleep-monger regimen. Sunday to Thursday I had to be in bed by 22.30 in order to ensure 7 hours’ sleep. That was the minimum I could get and still be functional the following day. So I always hit the redlight from 19.30 to 22.00, never later. Early in, early out. In all that time, I saw what a gogo bar looked like after midnight maybe twice. Retirement has changed that. Two weeks ago, I left the house at 21.30–an unheard of hour. A few days later, I ventured out at 22.00 to my own shock. Early last week I topped it. While laying around watching the first three John Wick movies, I suddenly got the urge for a bj and phoned up one of my concs. Typically I don’t reach out to my harem. I wait for them to tell me when they’re paying a visit. But I knew if I messaged this chick, she’d be over in a flash. She arrived at 21.00 and shortly thereafter, it began to piss down. So I was stuck with her for longer than expected. When she finally did leave it was 23.00, I was hungry, and she took my last bottle of water, so out t’Pong I went, to see what the redlight’s like after decent people go home.
All the way there, Silom was riddled with gangs of intoxicated dudes–mostly Caucasians with some Chinese and Japanese groups mixed-in. Plus families, and couples. The night market was a frenzy of international riffraff. I had an uneventful cigar and b ruskie outside K1 and then flopped over to New2 to speak with a superskinny new dancer whom I’d accidentally got tangled up with the previous night when I handed her some cash and told her to eat something. Instead of saying ‘thank you’ and walking on, she latched onto me like a barnacle. We got to chatting and she mentioned she’s an artist. I said, “Really? Me too.” She asked to see some of my work but inexplicably I had none saved on my phone. So I’d returned on this occasion to show her my array of very tasteful nude Patpong gogo dancers. She saw me and waved, and then took to the stage, so I was forced to decide whether or not to wait out the rotation.
A 60somethimg Japanese dude in Ray Ban sunglasses purchased one of those giant shot trays and half the staff were crowded around him. He did a lap of the bar, handing out money to all the girls. I love the one-week millionaires. They prop up this industry so that I can enjoy it year-round. Hats off to you, friend, wherever you are.
A minute later, the girl in question left the stage to come sit with me, and proceeded to shower me with the kind of affection that charms the tits off TLOS newcomers who aren’t used to being touched. She kept asking me to hug her because she was cold. I showed her my renderings of nude pole kitties and she wasn’t impressed. But I bought her a soju and she spent 10 mins making me feel uncomfortable with her physical attention. Then I pushed on to an absolutely crazy scene in Virgin. There were very few open seats. Yok found me and chilled for a bit. Two hi-so Asian chicks came in and ordered Coronas. Someone broke a glass–a telltale sign that peeps is drunk.
The after-midnight Patpong crowd is….unique. The ladyboy freelancers come out, as do the crews of freaky deaky tourists. In Thailand you’ve got your normal tourist, your sex tourist, and your freaky tourist. The freaks come out late. I sat on the Virgin terrace with a couple of dancers, watching the weirdos pass by. There was lots of leather, pleather, dark eyeliner, babydoll cosplay, and BDSM garb. Where these wackos were coming from and going to, I couldn’t say.
On a random night I skipped out for fish tacos at Sunrise. The plan was to eat and then have a DE Tabak on G’s terrace with whatever chocolate flavored beer was in their fridge. But as I munched on the tacos and nursed a margarita, the winds began to blow outside. That means only one thing in August in Thailand. Sure enough, 10 minutes later the sky opened and a monsoon dropped enough water to fill Silom Road ankle-high. G’s terrace was crammed with poor soggy sods waiting out the squall so I asked for a chocobeer to go. Guido said he had a new one made by San Miguel. And since I’d be his guinea pig for trying it, he sold me two for 170b and handed me an umbrella. I waded over to K1, got a b ruskie and made the San Miguel version of a Black Nyet’ro. The flavor was….nostalgic. when I was a kid my parents took me to a famous 50s-style diner in LA called Ed Debevic’s that served old-fashioned flavored Cokes. My fave was vanilla, but they had cherry and chocolate varieties, too. The BR/SMC combo tasted just like one of those chocoCokes.
At the table next to mine, an old German couple and their teenage son took refuge from the deluge. They polished off a pitcher of Heineken, and then while the mom remained at the table, the dad took his kid into the Castle, ostensibly to speed the puberty process in the poor lad’s gonads.
Around midweek, I was lounging on my couch late in the morning when suddenly someone in the apartment next to mine started drilling into the wall. I’ve discovered, since retiring, that my building is in a constant state of construction during the weekdays. The noise was intolerable so I hoofed it over to Shenanigan’s for a keto breakkie and some online tomfoolery. When I’d finished, I announced to the barmaid that I’d be relocating to the terrace to smoke a cigar. She got a mortified look on her face and said, “Oh, so sorry, cannot smoke cigar anymore.” I was floored. I’d smoked a stick on the Shagz terrace at least once a week since the day they opened. “Why in the everloving fuck not?” I inquired. “Too many complaints,” was the reply. Again, I was floored. I’d assumed that in Thailand, every outdoor seating area is essentially a designated smoking area, so any dickless pantywaste of a cunt who complains about smoke whilst sitting outside has only herself to blame for her discomfort.
But apparently, this isn’t true. There are some technical rules about the distance from the door of a restaurant to the smoking area, and if the District twats get wind of someone wingeing, they hop in their cars, break out the roof sirens, and commence to meting out justice. And to add insult to cuntery, said winger also wrote a negative review of Shagz on the interweb, based strictly on terrace smoke. Fucking hell, what a world.
And so, I’m faced with the prospect of finding a new daytime smoking spot. It’s the end of an era. Maybe I should open my own place—either a full-on smoke shop with an indoor/outdoor smoking lounge, or a bar that also sells stogies. If I do, and if anyone complains about the smell, I already have a list of responses. They all start the same: “I’m sorry Karen, but if you’re bothered by the smoke, I invite you to…” and then I’ll add on one of the following…
- walk further away from my bar.
- pay your bill and leave.
- go fuck yourself.
- suck a dick.
- eat shit.
- jump up your own ass.
- kill yourself.
- go cry quietly in a corner.
- punch yourself in the face till you lose consciousness.
- build a time machine, go back in time, and don’t book a holiday in a country where people still smoke in public.
Thankfully I can still spark up a fat stick outside a number of gogos, as well as the terrace at G’s. Speaking of, one night I went there to smoke a Drew Estate Kentucky Fire Cured and instead got roped into dinner. Guido mentioned he had some German Chanterelle mushrooms in and made a sauce with bacon that went over a chicken breast with potato dumplings on the side. I said Hell yes, I’m in. It was positively amazing. I couldn’t finish it, but that savory Bavarian (savovarian for short) comfort food hit the spot. It’s just what I needed to keep my equilibrium when having a long smoke. I can’t speak for all stogie lovers but if I light up on am empty stomach, I get the spins really easily.
I parked outside Virgin–a perch I swore to avoid for the next month (throwback to last week’s post) and spent an hour devouring that wicked cigar whilst watching the soi 2 foot traffic. I saw friends and enemies of old, plus the usual rabble of lonely hearts in search of a temporary lovestitute. I barely looked inside the gogo but did manage to spot half a dozen clungepals. Then I migrated to K1 for a vodka soda. They sported two rotations of 40, an incredible feat for midweek. In the seats, it was all Japanese dudes in suits with leather briefcases. Offy was either at home or occupied with another customer so I had a moment’s peace inside the castle. Then I hopped over to K Corner because it’s the only gogo where I don’t get hassled for drinks now. I can just enjoy the stage unmolested, which means I can scrutinize a dozen girls I’m too old and tired to chase after. Then I tried to double back to Virgin to put some bait on the hook for a girl I’m after in there, but the sky split open and the Good Lord dropped a deluge on the Pong. I made it as far as the K1 terrace, where a hostess joined my table and scarfed down a plate of krapow gai on my dime and we watched the soi slowly fill up with water. Once it abated, I sloshed home and closed the book on another redlight night.
As the weekend loomed, I ponged again. Offy was MIA once more in K1 but now I have another clinger. She’s a skinny vixen (skixen for short, copyright BKK7) who refuses to come to my room but pumps me for drinks every night. I’m playing the long game with her, because she’s adamant that she won’t go with customers. Thus, adding her to my trophy concs will be all the more satisfying.
You know you’ve spoiled the local Thais who hit you up for cash when the soi 2 security guard comes begging for beer money and as you hand him a 50 instead of the hundy you normally give him, he nearly refuses it. Whilst smoking outside Virgin I saw something new: a gang of well-dressed Thai chicks wandered past. stopped momentarily, and then all went into the gogo. I surmised they were looking for work, and chose to head out to the redlight in a pack, for safety.
I’ve fallen into the habit of buying sweets for the Virgin staff. This involves me drunkenly stumbling (drumbling) into Foodland, purchasing a bag full of Mentos and other suckables, and dumping them in front of the stage. On Monday the staff pulled me aside and said, “Seven, if you’re going to buy us candy, please get gummy bears and/or lollipops.” Something about beggars and choosers crossed my mind, but I let it go, because the folks in that gogo are very good to me. It does mean the price of favoring them with sweets will triple, but that’s what I get for being generous in the first place. No good deed, and all that.
On Friday I woke up, posted this week’s Members Only gallery to my website, went for steak and eggs at Paddy Reilly, had a conc over, and set out for a weekend rager in the Pong. Halfway there I looked at my phone. It said Thursday, 29 August. Fucking retirement got me twisted again. I can’t keep track of the days, goddammit.
The Castle was so damn crowded I couldn’t even get through the door. A hostess grabbed me. “Seven, you leemembah me na?” I told her I recognized her face. She said “Do you leemembah where?” I guessed The Strip. She frowned, but I was done guessing at that point and bailed to new2 where I saw not one familiar face onstage. In K Corner, I spotted four newhotties. In a back booth, a blafrican American in a black and silver sequined suit intently pitched himself to a pole kitty who clearly didn’t understand a word he was saying. He showed her photos of himself in-studio, explaining he’s a big deal in the US music industry. I love when dudes think they need to come at a Thai girl, and a gogo dancer at that, the same way he would a whore in a Hollywood nightclub. You got it backwards, buddy. It’s the romance equivalent of backing in ass-first.
Back on the K1 terrace I was accosted by the previously-mentioned ‘leemembah me’ hostess who was a shark in disguise. She tried to rinse me for the 2-drink tourist trap but I balked. I did however get her a tequila plus paid for her dinner. She was so ruthless she wouldn’t even pose for a photo, demanding 500b for a snapshot. But I’m always cordial to the redlight clunge, because that’s how my mama raised me. I think it’s a man’s obligation to always be polite to women–even the crazy and violent ones. Always be the better person, I say. With other men, it’s the opposite, of course.
In other news, last week I was post-sex chatting with one of my concubines when she broached a subject I’m not fluent enough to talk about in Thai. So I switched to English, spoke for about 30 seconds, and then she said, “Seven! Tam mai you poot passa angrit to me. Don’t do that. You speak Thai.” I would, honey, but I never learned how to say “I had terrible acne in my teens” in Thai. You know you’ve been in-country too long when your concs forget it’s your second language.
On rare occasions, in conversations with random people, I get the content of my blog fed back to me. It happened last week when a local asked, “Hey, did you hear about Dok Bar? It will change to a gogo.” Then he said, “Did you tell me that? No no, it was someone else.” Well, that someone else got it from my post so yes, I did tell you, indirectly.
At the weekend, I was sound asleep on the couch when someone rang the doorbell. Normally I would ignore it and hope they went away, but for some reason I decided to answer, with a katana in hand in case it was someone who shouldn’t be there. It turned out to be a former XXX Lounge dancer who’d lost her phone and couldn’t message me. How she got past the security guard in the lobby, I couldn’t say. She said she was skint and needed rent money, and could she get naked and ride my wang for half an hour in exchange for a grand. I told her it wouldn’t take anywhere near half an hour, and I was right. Twenty minutes later, she was walking out my door, smiling from ear to ear while I struggled to catch my breath. She got my Line with her new phone. I asked her where she was working now. She said “Rainbow Nana Plaza.”
Speaking of Nana Plaza, even though I’m banned, it hasn’t stopped me from going ther–I mean, it hasn’t stopped me from getting reports from friends who visit. Because of course, I can’t just freely walk in there. I mean, security must have my photo at the ready, and will stop me as soon as I try to enter. No way I could just stroll in without any problems and go about my business. No, I have to pull a Stickman and report on a place I never visit, based solely on the word of others. So here’s a Nana update–not a first-hand account but a 3rd party hand-me-down….
If I were to go to Nana, I’d only hit four bars: Angelwitch, where Joey D plays the perfect host and where punters get a taste of old-school Bangkok redlight, with proper doxies and throwback tunes, Tycoon where I’d go just to visit Beer and a few other exXXXers, Geisha to watch the bath tub antics of a team of ultra skinny, shameless clunge slingers, and Red Dragon to marvel at how they’re not as popular as they should be with the lineup of hotties they have.
Spanky’s still charges the most for a beer in the Plaza at 180b. Billboard still fills up before 20.30 and all of their dancers are over 35. And that’s Nana in a nutsack. Please go there instead of Patpong.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a couple of video compilations of gogo dancers. The first one is a series of solo pole kitties whipping out their best moves both inside and out of the bar. The second one is a bunch of clips from XXX Lounge. Watching it almost feels like being back there. The link can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-post-2-gogo-dancer-videos/
but only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-centric stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
My buddy Jack and I host a growing Facebook community with lots of nightlife-related content at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/thaiagogo
and I’ve got a small but robust group of pervs posting photos daily at a group called Super Hot Asians here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/374120690195407
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily monger material, along with these other profiles that’re chock full of photos of hotties:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related artwork can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
And until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: Don’t put anything off. If there’s something you’ve been meaning to do, do it. The next pandemic is mere months away, along with nuclear war and worldwide totalitarianism. So strike while the iron is hot, because if you wait you might miss your chance.
